


Should we ever be parted

by targaryen_melodrama



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, Mild Angst, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27054490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryen_melodrama/pseuds/targaryen_melodrama
Summary: Niccolò expects to finally be able to breathe, to start shedding the weight that has been crushing his shoulders since they had gotten Andromache’s urgent letter. As it is, all he can do is sit on one of two small cots and look up at Yusuf, who is slowly removing his drenched clothes and sorting through the few belongings he had brought over to England.Yusuf, Niccolò would have called had he been calmer. Had he been less afraid.Sit with me. Just for a moment.He skips directly, clumsily, to the root of the matter instead.“Should we ever be parted,” Niccolò says, his voice barely carrying over the storm, “should we ever be parted like this, I...I do not think you should keep searching for me that long.”
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 148





	Should we ever be parted

Venice greets them with heavy showers, making it rather difficult for Niccolò to forget the cursed island they had just left. Lingering on England and what they had found—or, rather, what they had not been able to find there—is foolish, but it is nearly impossible not to be distracted, even for a few seconds at a time, by Andromache’s screams echoing in his mind, or by the loss of a friend he never would have thought they could lose in the first place. Not like this.

The journey to Cannaregio feels never-ending, and when they reach their final destination, Niccolò lets Yusuf take care of their accommodations with the innkeeper, since his Venetian is practically as good as Niccolò’s, a fact he would be mercilessly teased about under different circumstances. He pays little attention to their conversation, simply following when Yusuf leads them up three flights of stairs to a sparsely furnished, dimly lit room.

Once the door is locked, Niccolò expects to finally be able to breathe, to start shedding the weight that has been crushing his shoulders since they had gotten Andromache’s urgent letter, but for some reason, he’s unable to draw comfort from the mere ability to rest as he usually would, or from the relief of being away from prying eyes.

Was it the years they had spent searching for their friend in vain? The fact that they had barely made it out of England in one piece, narrowly escaping the people who had started to grow suspicious of them and their motives? Might it be because they had, for the first time, taken a break in their search for Quyhn, and therefore, for the first time, seriously considered that they may never have her back? Whatever the reason for his agitation, lead fills Niccolò’s stomach and crawls up his throat, demanding to come out, and his sanity is threatening to leave his body right along with it. He cannot stand their dark room though they have stayed in much smaller, much dirtier places, nor can he take the heavy, restless, quiet of their room, layered with the steady flow of rain outside, only interrupted by occasional claps of thunder. Something is rushing in Niccolò’s veins along with his blood, drumming erratically under his skin, and only much, much later would he realize that that something was fear. 

As it is, all he can do is sit on one of two small cots and look up at Yusuf, who is slowly removing his drenched clothes and sorting through the few belongings he had brought over to England.

 _Yusuf_ , Niccolò would have called had he been calmer. Had he been less afraid. _Sit with me_. _Just for a moment_. He skips directly, clumsily, to the root of the matter instead. 

“Should we ever—” Niccolò has to clear his throat. Yusuf slows down, hand briefly suspended in the air above his satchel, before carrying on with a slight frown. “Should we ever be parted,” Niccolò says, his voice barely carrying over the storm, “should we ever be parted like this, I...I do not think you should keep searching for me that long.”

Yusuf stops what he is doing entirely, but keeps his eyes firmly on his belongings. “You are tired, Niccolò. You should rest.”

They haven’t dismissed each other like this in centuries. It grates at Niccolò’s nerves, which are already _so_ close to being scraped raw. “I _am_ tired and I _will_ rest; that does not in any way change what I just said. Yusuf,” he tries again, softer, “I do not know how much longer we have. I cannot—I could not live with myself, no matter how much I was suffering, knowing you were lost too.” 

_Lost_ is a useless, almost offensive euphemism. The woman they knew as Andromache is simply...gone, her heart buried down at the bottom of an ocean they had spent five years canvassing. Even her anger had waned in the last months, flames of wrath and despair dwindling down to ashes until their sister, the goddess, the warrior, was but a shadow of herself. Bile rises in Niccolò’s throat at the thought of Yusuf suffering the same fate. 

“I do not think you understand what you ask of me,” Yusuf says. His voice is...detached, purposefully lukewarm, and does absolutely nothing to appease the state Niccolò is in. 

“I understand, otherwise I would not be asking. I am asking you to choose life—a real, meaningful life—over death. I did not think I was asking for much.”

Yusuf’s jaw tightens. “You did not think at all. If you put your feelings aside, Niccolò—”

“You know _nothing_ about my feelings. Do not speak of them.” Niccolò stands with his outburst, but his anger has nowhere to go: the fight seems to have gone out of Yusuf completely, leaving frustration and bitterness to hang awkwardly in the air. 

A stiff nod is all Niccolò gets as a reply before Yusuf goes back to his satchel. Good God, he would take the irritating dismissal a thousand times over whatever non-response this is. After a few moments of staring, hoping that if he stared long enough Yusuf would be baited into fighting about this—proper fighting that is, like they used to—Niccolò gives up and decides to turn in for the night.

It’s probably for the best. Perhaps with a decent night of sleep, he would not lose his temper at the mere mention of his feelings. 

Ha! What a pitiful lie. 

When it comes to Yusuf, Niccolò could no more _put his feelings aside_ than he could turn water into wine. He would if he could: it would make the downturns of their too-long lives easier to bear. In a world where Niccolò could put his feelings for Yusuf aside, he would not have to find a way to plead with the only man he’s ever loved to take shelter should they face another unsurvivable storm, while said man remained blissfully unaware of the extent of those feelings.

Niccolò sighs and closes his eyes, and immediately regrets it when Quyhn’s smiling face floats into his mind. It seems the only thing he can do to avoid nightmarish thoughts while he is still awake is to stare into the darkness and hope for an uneventful sleep.

*

“You did not wake me.”

Niccolò is too tired for his voice to sound as hurt as he feels, a fact for which he is quite grateful. Though he has accepted the irrational and downright petulant way his mind often behaves when it comes to Yusuf, it does not mean he has to let any of it on. 

“You needed your rest,” Yusuf says quietly, his hand on their room’s door knob.

Niccolò takes in the black cloak fastened around his neck and the satchel at his hip as he rises to a sitting position, leaning on his elbow. “Heading to the market, then.”

“I don’t know how long we can take shelter here, and how long we’ll have access to fresh food.”

Niccolò nods and stretches before leaving his bed and padding to the window. As cool and impersonal as their accommodations are, he is glad for the view it affords them. The skies are overcast, but the grey clouds are not nearly as heavy as they were last night, before the Heavens started pouring out over them. Evidence of the showers lingers in patches, on dark wet stones standing out on the ground, and on the leaves of the plants climbing and weaving their way around homes, errant drops weighing them down. 

No more rain for now, but the sun was still a ways out.

“You’ll be careful?” Niccolò asks cautiously as he turns from the window, trying to avoid any of the traps he had laid for them last night. 

“I will be back before the sun sets.” Yusuf leaves before Niccolò can offer to accompany him. While they are far from England and this part of Europe is more familiar to them, it is an unwise decision on his part. Yusuf probably wants to give them both space. Niccolò blows out a harsh breath, worried, annoyed and frustrated all at once.

It seems that there was not much reason to worry, because Yusuf is true to his word, startling Niccolò awake when he pushes the door open some time later. He had unintentionally fallen asleep after a day of trying and failing to read a run-down copy of Villon’s collected poems.

“Trouble?”

Yusuf shakes his head. “I didn’t linger.” After removing his boots, he drops a bundle on the small table facing their window and takes his satchel back to his cot.

“Eat, Niccolò.” 

Niccolò complies, too hungry to wait, and gets started as he watches Yusuf remove his cloak and sort through his findings. He hums when he sees Yusuf drop a small book on his cot. 

“More outcry about Reformation,” Yusuf answers his wordless question. “Though I heard this one also has interesting views on Hell.”

“Hmm. Thank you.”

Yusuf nods, and when he continues removing things from his satchel instead of joining him at the small table, Niccolò says, “Later, please, Yusuf. Sit with me and eat.”

With another nod, Yusuf gently puts down his satchel and joins Niccolò at the table. 

Despite the mildly tense silence, they are closer to what their usual evenings are like, and their meal—bread and sardines, soft cheese and grapes for dessert—is the best they’ve had in years. Yusuf’s thoughtfulness and the familiarity of breaking bread together melts the last of the ice hanging on to Niccolò’s heart, and he decides to bring Yusuf in so he can enjoy the warmth as well. 

“Did you leave earlier with the intention to spoil us?”

“It’s only bread and a book, Nicò.”

“Fresh, warm bread and a newly bound book.” Niccolò dips the last of his bread in the sauce pooling in his bowl. “And the vial of oil you don’t think I’ve noticed yet.”

Yusuf sighs. “Over five hundred years by the Mediterranean, and things were fine. Five years in England and my hair and beard are desert dry. I haven’t taken proper care in too long—you can’t deny me this.”

“You’ve never made excuses for purchasing your gallons of oil before.”

“Well, Niccolò, I’ve never been shamed for it before.”

Niccolò buries his smile in his cup of water. “Was that what I did? Shame you?”

Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “Some of us have hair that requires complex care. I would not expect you to understand.”

“I knew you would say as much, and yet ‘complex hair care’ does not explain how Quyhn—”

How can Niccolò have ruined the truce he called? And there is no denying their short-lived peace is over. Yusuf’s thoughts are all over his face: in the creases on his forehead, the shadows in his eyes and the downturn of his mouth. 

Yusuf pushes his bowl away from him and crosses his arms on his chest. His eyes are on the floor. “Niccolò. What you—what you said last night…”

“I meant every word.” Niccolò lets the words slip from his mouth quietly—he has no desire to be angry again.

“I was afraid you did. It simply—it does not make sense to me, Nicò, can you understand that? That you would—that you would think me capable—that you would _ask_ that I...leave you. That I leave you like _this_.”

How thoughtless Niccolò had been to think he wouldn’t have to explain himself. “You saw,” he says, swallowing roughly, “you saw what became of our Andromache. I know we are not—lovers, that we are not bonded like they were. Are, like they are.” A blessing and a curse, at the moment. “But you are my friend, my dearest friend, and I know you would not stop until God himself asked it of you, and I cannot have that. I simply cannot. You need to _live_. With or without me.”

“What kind of life would that be?” There is genuine confusion in Yusuf’s eyes. “Why would you ask me to give up on you? To give you up?”

“Not to give _me_ up, to give you a chance!”

“There is no—”

For a moment it seems like the wind is completely taken out of Yusuf’s sails, but when he frowns, Niccolò realizes he is simply changing course.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve told you why—”

“You haven’t. Not the whole of it, anyway.” Yusuf’s voice is quiet again, and the knot at the bottom of Niccolò’s stomach tightens the way it had the previous evening. A quiet Yusuf is never a good sign, and Niccolò is proven right when Yusuf asks, “Why are you acting as if my life is more important than yours?”

 _Because it is_.

“I’m not—” How to tell the truth without exposing his heart? How to lie without angering Yusuf? “I am doing no such thing,” Niccolò says, rising from his chair. He faces the window, puts his back to Yusuf. “If I am lost, why should you be too?”

“If you are lost and I am not, why should you remain lost?”

“The choice is no longer in our hands! I cannot—if...if—” Niccolò stops when he hears Yusuf’s chair scrape off the floor. Every step Yusuf takes seems to echo from the small room into Niccolò’s heart, until it stops beating entirely when Yusuf stops a few inches away from him.

“Nicò.” His voice is low but gentle. “Why are you acting as if my life is more important than yours?”

Niccolò closes his eyes. “Because it is. It is.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Niccolò spins on his heel, finds himself facing a confused and upset Yusuf. “We’ve...we’ve given up our lives for each other before.”

“Knowing, or at least _hoping_ we would come back. The thought of Quynh... _stuck_ there is—is...unbearable. Yet you stand here asking me to think of you in the same situation and to—leave you there. How? Why?”

“Because you are—you are my companion, Yusuf.” 

Not a lie, but not quite the truth. _Companion_ explains why Niccolò sleeps facing the door, since he knows he can wake from sleep and face potential threats much easier than Yusuf. _Companion_ explains that Niccolò always insists they stop at a port or a beach whenever they leave a city even when they are in a rush, knowing that landscapes are among Yusuf’s favorites to sketch. _Companion_ does not, and can never, account for the fact that in hundreds of years of life, few moments have been as pleasurable as the ones spent with Yusuf, in silence or in passionate conversation. Not the bloodlust-fueled glory of the early years, not the exhilaration of travelling in breathtaking foreign lands. _Companion_ did not account for the fact that Niccolò feels like the entire universe is contained in Yusuf’s eyes, and, more importantly, that Niccolò could not care less about the rest of the universe when those eyes settle on him. 

Niccolò feels like he’s already too much, though the word is not nearly enough. “You...you are—” There _are_ no words. 

Scripture comes to mind as it often does, even to this day, when Niccolò’s thoughts are scattered, impossible to gather. 

_Bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh_. Closer. Too close to the truth.

“Tell me,” Yusuf asks. He still looks utterly confused, and Niccolò cannot stand leaving him in the dark any longer, even at the expense of their relationship.

As he takes a deep breath, Niccolò remembers that Yusuf had sought the companionship of men before, and had loved them. He’d even sketched and written about them. Perhaps the entirety of their relationship was not on the line. Then he remembers, just as fast as the initial thought had come. 

_Foolish, foolish Niccolò_. These men were not _him_.

“You are…my companion. The shield to my sword, you—you are my heart, Yusuf. Of the two of us, you are the poet, and I do not—I cannot put into words all that you mean to me. I—I love you, and I will not—” Niccolò clears his throat, does not pay any mind to Yusuf’s quiet gasp. “You might not feel like this, like I do. But I will never let you give up on life for me. Not as long as I can help it.”

How many more times, Niccolò wonders over his rising panic, how many more times in this immortal life will he have to stand before Yusuf, empty and defenseless, praying for a quick and merciful end ?

Niccolò startles when two of Yusuf’s fingers land on his jaw, before slowly gliding down to his chin and gently pushing up, forcing him to look into Yusuf’s eyes.

“How do you know?” Yusuf asks softly. His eyes are wide, but his forehead is creased, the expression he wears when he is on the cusp of solving a particularly complicated algebra equation, the solution so close, but still frustratingly out of reach.

“How?” Niccolò can barely explain that he is in love, how in the world would he be able to explain _how_ he fell in love? It had happened over the course of decades, and—

“How do you know I do not feel the same way?”

Oh.

The breath Niccolò needs to speak has been knocked out of him.

“Niccolò.” Yusuf’s fingers are on his jaw again; Niccolò’s heart has been launched somewhere beyond Heaven. He’ll never recover it. “My lovely Niccolò, attentive and astute in all places but where it matters most. We have spent centuries at each other’s side, seen half the world. Have my eyes ever strayed from you?”

“I... _no_ , but I am your—your companion.”

“My companion, and the sword to my shield.” Yusuf is no longer frowning, and his eyes are glowing now, the muted yet breathtaking glow of the sun setting over the sea. “The constellation mapping the night sky, faithfully carrying me forward when I am in the dark. I have loved you for what I would call an eternity, if we were not so closely acquainted with the term.”

Niccolò closes his eyes. He knows of dreams, of the last delirious ramblings of the mind before death, and right after it. That his love would be returned, reciprocated, feels too good, too much, to be true. He is knocked out of his shock when Yusuf steps even closer, lays his other hand on Niccolò’s jaw and kisses him.

Too soft, too warm, too _good_ to be true, but Niccolò no longer cares. He knows what Yusuf’s lips, hands, nose and brow feel like on his face. There is no going back. 

“You….truly? Love?” is the nonsense that comes out of Niccolò’s mouth when they part. 

“I truly love, yes. You, in this instance.”

“Don’t tease me, Yusuf,” Niccolò says, hiding his smile in Yusuf’s neck. “My thoughts are hardly ever coherent when I think of you—it is a miracle we are here, now, like this.”

“It is,” Yusuf agrees quietly. A moment passes before Niccolò feels him take a deep breath and speak again. “I thought of telling you. A few times. That night in Cairo, I almost did.” They both shudder at the gruesome memory. “When we first saw...when we first saw Quynh and Andromache together, I thought there might be a path for us. For me. But I never knew, never wanted to—” Niccolò nods emphatically, tightens his hold on Yusuf’s back. Potentially damaging their relationship _forever_ is a risk hardly anyone alive would take. He understands. “And here we are, where I never thought we could be, because you want to sacrifice yourself for me.”

Niccolò stiffens, but he does not let go. He never will. “It’s no sacrifice, Yusuf. I have given my life for yours hundreds of times before, and I will do it again. Even if it comes to this. I will not have you fall off the face of the Earth, whether it is because you are looking for me or because you cannot physically stand to look for me anymore. Not when the world gains so much by having you alive and well.”

Yusuf starts rubbing warm, comforting circles on his back until Niccolò’s body feels loose again. “I cannot make such a promise, my love. I don’t think I ever will.”

Worry begins to creep into Niccolò’s thoughts again, but it is quickly pushed back when Yusuf kisses the top of his head. Niccolò slowly brings his head up and kisses Yusuf’s forehead before bringing their foreheads together. “Let us never be parted, then. Let us never be from each other’s side.” His eyes are already closed—it is easy, natural, to send a quick plea upwards, to beg that what the Lord has joined together will not be put asunder.

Yusuf nods. Agreement, at last. “Few things have pulled us apart before. Nothing ever will again.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [Tumblr](http://targaryenmelodrama.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/andrea_b_tweets) !


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